[ This isn’t his ship. He knows that before he opens his eyes, the now-familiar hum of life support systems replaced by distant and distinctly more human sounds — It WAS our fault... and some idiot left it behind in V— less distant is the voice that jolts him to alert, but when he looks for the source there isn’t one, and this wouldn’t be the first time his nightmares bled through into the first few moments of waking.

It isn’t the first he’s woken up somewhere unfamiliar with no idea how he got there, either. He looks at his hands. Clean. Weapons unused. Partner missing. Okay.

He moves with purpose, like he belongs here and like he knows where he’s going, through hallways and up stairwells of what looks like a military base but doesn’t seem to have any military personnel in it, until he reaches the roof. High ground and a good vantage point on— ]

What the hell–?

[ —Earth. The words are breathed as his boots scrape to a stop against emulsion. That’s Earth alright, but empty. No cars on the highway. No guards at the gates. Nothing.

Huh. ]

[ First things first, he needs more weapons. A rifle with a scope, some spare clips, an extra set of knives. Gunshots attract them, the sign said, whatever them is, and so he settles cross-armed in front of the crossbows like they’ve personally offended him, mouth downturned.

Crossbows, man.

Maybe there’s a silencer in here somewhere... ]

Ow, would ya—

[ Between crossbow wall and supply trunk, he jabs an elbow at his jacket. –The strangely bulbous jacket he’s got on in the middle of summer and now seems to be. squirming. around the midsection. ]

Alright, alright, hold your horses, I’ll find you a backpack or something.

[ 1.3 miles is nothing much if he knows where he’s headed, but when he’s headed into the unknown, even he has to admit it doesn’t hurt to be a little prepared. (Somewhere, Daisy ought to be very proud.) An MRE or two might be worth its weight, but more importantly: water. He’s filling canteens at the sink, metal fingers curled around the neck of a bottle under the tap, With his off hand, he extends a carrot he'd dug out of one of the fridges over his shoulder, toward the open flap of his backpack.

The pack gives a huff. ]

Hey. [ Nothing. He bounces the carrot. ] Come on. I know it’s no Skrull-Thai fusion — trust me, I know — but at least it ain’t freeze-dried.

[ A grunt answers. Bucky shrugs. ]

You loss, pal.